The Crucible



by Alyssa Agerton

The air is chilly, but not chilly

enough to push father and

daughter off the weathered porch.

She wraps her hands in the bottom

of her oversized t-shirt,

plunking down beside him.

While they are silent,

the world is not,

their cast iron glider creaks,

water drops plummeting,

the ground awaiting

to suck, absorb, replenish,

puddles forming where

Earth is slow to drink.

Thunder roars over hillsides

to join the rain, now

dive-bombing Earth,

landing hard with thuds and plops.

Brothers and sisters

gathering in birdbaths,

drain pipes, gutters.

Micro rivers forming,

lining the road in front of

their old brick house,

now surrounded by clouds

of creaks, hovering in vast

silence, observing the two

souls who are


the rain.